The Lord Giveth, The Lord Taketh Away
by Val-Creative
Summary: Wrecking his car, while not awesome, is something Dean can handle. But, seriously, why does there have to be flaming Legos in his backseat? /Pre-slash. Season 4. Drabblet.


… …

Dean's greased fingers, blackened and flecking with engine oil, lovingly cradle a handful of miniature, plastic bricks.

When the rest of them drop into the Impala's vents, Dean lifts up two bricks in front of his eyes and grins _secretive_. The angel stares back with a dull frown, Jimmy Novak's celestial-luminous eyes meeting a shade of manufactured blue. "They're called Legos," Dean explains, like it's not complicated at all, like Castiel is _supposed_ to well-educated in every mundane, human ritual for how many thousand years he's been around. His disgustingly viscid, acidic-smelling fingers shove the remaining two into the radiator. "They belong in there."

But… it's not as though Castiel perceives whether or not that statement is to be followed by every car owner. Then again, not every man on his Father's planet has worked himself to the bone to reassemble a single aspect of his wrecked childhood, a little portion of his father's memory, a corporeal representation that Dean could scrape by and move _forward_ from every disaster that befalls him and his brother. Not every man has the fortitude, not every man _is _reassembled from his living fibers once they are tossed and flayed apart into the Pit.

"Why, Dean?"

There isn't a given answer that satisfies Castiel, not one to do with the absurdness of _sentimentality_ and a transparent sort of established practice.

It takes mere moments for his being and his Grace to seek the materials he needs. He finds himself in what someone might approximate as 'a comfortable sitting position' with his vessel's legs crossed in front of him on the leather upholstery. Castiel waves his right hand upwards in the air.

A multitude of Legos — greens, blues, reds, yellows, pastels, large, medium, small, triangular and thin, round and bulky, ones for building, ones crudely depicting the human race — appear in the backseat of the Impala, grandiose and imposing in their complex, intricate structure of heterogeneous, toy metropolises.

"He was the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not¹. He is far above all rulers, authorities, powers, lords, and all other names that can be named, not only in this present world but in the world to come²." Castiel raises his hand once more, reciting another holy passage with that scratchy voice, expression serene, "Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good³."

At a soundless command, his handiwork explodes with a scorching flash, half-burnt Legos sizzling and scattering in all directions, lightly thudding against the rolled up windows and disappearing under the front seats. From outside his car, Dean throws away his partially drained beer bottle onto a patch of grass and angrily bangs an open palm on the newly washed hood to get Castiel's attention. He jerks the passenger door open. "What the _hell_ are you doing in my car, dude? You trying to give me a friggin' heart attack?"

"Your theory about the innate essence of acrylonitrile butadiene styrene is exaggerated at best."

Dean scowls at the observation, rolling his eyes. "Just get out of her, jesus _CHRIST_—" In the blink of an eye, maybe quicker than what anyone could register, Castiel is millimeters from overtaking Dean's left side, squinting his eyes at the other. Dean jerks his head, avoiding the collision of his chin to the bridge of Castiel's pale, crinkling nose.

"Cas, _geez_… you mind not setting fire to my car…" The burnt Legos take that moment to vanish from existence, the interior of the Impala completely untouched by the earlier destruction. Dean peers over to his vehicle with some relief, scraping his bare, _clean_ fingernails over the tanned nape of his neck. "What were you doing in there anyway?"

"Seeking enlightenment in what we spoke of earlier."

A disbelieving grunt. "Looked more like practicing mass genocide," Dean tells him, the beginnings of a smirk lining his mouth. "What did the Lego population do to deserve a smiting like that? Citywide plague turned zombie apocalypse?" Castiel's dark eyebrows furrow in seriousness.

"…you are aware that their likeness is not sentient, correct?"

"You know what… you are just a bucket full of laughs, Cas." The angel does not acknowledge the abrupt, warm clap on his trench-coat's shoulder. "Don't quit your day job, buddy." As a snickering Dean moves away, poking his head through the still open, passenger seat door, Castiel's eyebrows furrow again.

Not every man can survive Hell, walk and talk and _breathe_ like the air surrounding them is precious, and _laugh_ — and that's part of why Dean's so special.

It continues to baffle Castiel in a rare and growing, cognitive strand of… _questioning_ (when the luxury was not afforded).

… …

* * *

_Prompt from the **deancaskink**. LEGO-CALYPSE, AHAHAHA. CASTIEL IS GOD AMONG LEGO MEN._

_**Tidbits**:  
_

_¹ - verse from John 1:10  
_

_² - verse from Ephesians 1:21  
_

_³ - verse from Titus 3:1  
_


End file.
